Spermicidal
by Green Owl
Summary: Presbyterians say it’s kosher if used in place of inappropriate activity. Pairing: John & Ellie. For my fellow JELLIE Girls, especially sunshineali.


Title: Spermicidal  
Author: Green Owl  
Pairing: John Ellie JELLIE!  
Word Count: 2,400  
Timeline: Post-"Chuck Vs. The Marlin"  
Rating: NC-17 (Casey swears and fantasizes and Ellie, um…)  
Summary: Presbyterians say it's kosher if used in place of inappropriate activity…

Disclaimer: I don't own or buy/sell/process this mind crack - I just abuse the _hell _out of it.

* * *

Every man had one.

That one idealized woman who, if she stopped by in nothing but a nightie, carrying a bottle of his favorite booze, would be more than enough to tempt him to throw away his morals, marriage (or engagement, relationship, etc.), and his common sense.

For a lot of guys it was Pamela Anderson. Good old Pam, with her big blonde hair, her big blue eyes and her big bouncing bra-fillers. Thanks to the internet, it was common knowledge what she could do with her mouth and hands and other, more gender-defining attributes. She'd had other incarnations throughout the years: Betty Grable in the 40's, Marilyn Monroe in the 50's, Jayne Mansfield and Bridget Bardot in the 60's, Farrah Fawcett in the 70's, Kelly Preston in the 80's, Heather Graham in the 90's. 

But no matter what the era, it always came down to the Holy Trinity: blonde, blue and big. He supposed it was the allure of the nymphet – the totally willing, morally-impaired, hypersexualized ideal. Made for service, and no other purpose. 

A guy could just lay back and enjoy the show, so to speak.

Whenever his buddies had questioned him about his favorite jerk-off fantasy, he'd been quick to answer "Linda Hamilton, _The Terminator_", just to get them off of his back. Like unsuspecting cattle, they'd all agreed on his unquestionably good taste and kept on going, describing in graphic detail the various ways they'd like to do the former Mrs. James Cameron, all the while ignorant of the reason Casey had picked her in the first place.

He didn't want mindless, meaningless banging. That could be had for the price of a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue on the right section of Cahuenga – no skill required for the transaction, just let Nature take her course. 

He wanted tenderness, touching, total body loving, like Sarah and that kid Reese had in the movie. 

Listening to the locker room banter of his so-called "friends", all of which revolved around how they'd use their fifth appendages on their favorite celebrities, Casey knew each and every one of them would bust a gut if they ever found out that his preferred sex act required his tongue, his lips and maybe, just maybe, one or both of his hands.

He loved that sweet spot between a girl's legs, loved it more than he loved his guns, his gear, his goddamn little baby bonsais that he'd raised from itty-bitty seedlings, maybe even more than he loved all of the Republican glory of the 80's that the former president Ronald Reagan stood for.

Heaven was closed to men like him. There were too many terminations in his log, too many "no explanations, please, just give me my orders, sir" that he'd carried out to ever see the pearly gates. Fulfilling a woman was as close as he'd ever get to paradise, and he figured he could live with that.

Goddamn, but there wasn't anything on earth like the way a woman moved when he was loving her in that fashion. Making her moan and shudder and whimper and damn near suffocate him between her thighs was a million times more exciting to him than anything involving intermittent vanishing acts featuring Little John. 

There weren't many females he fancied enough to get close to, though. The NSA didn't accept morons and most women were easy to read if you knew what symbols to look for. 

_Most_. 

_Roman flower markets ought to feature large orange signs that read "Beware of French Lilac and Secret Agents"._

When he looked at "Sara", he saw a little girl trying desperately to pretend she was mature. There was always some kind of emotional shitstorm threatenting to descend with that CIA skirt. Girl was always backpedaling, dialing down her heart, trying to "be the job" when it was plain as day that what she really wanted was to go for the thrill. At least that skinny little redheaded poor-excuse-for-an-agent Carina didn't try to hide her concupiscence. Sara pretended she was cool and calm and collected when she really, really liked playing with fire. It was in the way she tossed her hair whenever she knew Bartowski was looking, the way she re-applied her lipstick, like she was about to give head to the tube, just to see if it would make Chuck's adam's apple bob or not.

She was Code Orange waiting to happen and Casey had long ago resigned himself to the fact that someday he might have to put a bullet to her if she went woolly.

His other "co-worker", Anna, had her own year-long subscriptions to deal with. She thought she was so unique with her little emo /goth / anime-niac Barbita complex, but it wasn't anything he hadn't seen a million times before. Good girl trying to be bad – make up, hair, clothes, attitude, sex with women, sex with hobbits – anything to establish herself as separate and distinct from her culture and her parents. If he checked back with her in another five years, he was willing to bet good money that she'd complete the circle and be right back where she started, clinging to her roots and combing the internet to search and destroy any evidence that she'd ever worn thigh-highs and screwed one of the Buy More boys in the cage one night while bored. 

Casey pitied her in some ways, envied her in others. At least she got to be public about her odd little fixations.

His would remain buried deep, deep down, so far inside of his psyche that even the Commies with their water and batteries and incessant talking would never be able to pry it out of him.

When he looked at her, he saw what he, by virtue of his career, could never have. She was a good woman, smart, kind, attentive, interested in what made people tick, what made them happy, and she was genuine, the real deal.

Who else in all of his years would have brought him a cupcake "just because"?

He would swear she had daddy issues if it weren't for the way she looked at him as she handed it to him, like he was some damn stray she'd taken to feeding and she knew enough to hang back and let him come 'round at his own pace. 

It was all there in her eyes – "Anytime you're hungry, just knock. There's always room for you at my table."

And knock he did.

Probably more often than was good for his health.

Bartowski thought it was just another example of Casey's superior surveillance skills that he always managed to show up just as his sister was placing the serving spoons into the food, but the Nerd Shepherd didn't know the half of it. 

Casey knew her schedule, knew when she arrived home, knew the moment that she opened the cupboards, turned on the oven, broke out the mixing bowls and the Better Homes & Gardens cookbook. 

He also knew well enough to take himself in hand and spend a good fifteen minutes in the bathroom if he was going to be able to make it through dinner without embarrassing himself because all he could think about was her long, gorgeous legs and what lay between them.

He thought about them in the kitchen. Always in the kitchen. Awesome was all over the bedroom, the living room, the bath the two of them shared, but the kitchen was hers. He could touch her there, even if it was just in his mind.

His favorite, can't-miss, sure-fire, go-to fantasy revolved around the two of them on the breakfast bar. Or rather, her on the breakfast bar, naked as the day she was born, legs spread and him finishing the night off fine between them: knees over his shoulders, thighs muffling his ears, heels digging into his kidneys, her short, unpolished fingernails biting into his scalp and her breath getting as choppy and rhythmic as the ocean waves off the coast of Carmel as he glutted and gorged himself on her scented, slippery musk.

A finger, maybe two, inside of her, deep-seated, crooking swift and sure against her G-spot until her breathing became that repetitious single harsh inhale / three brusque exhales that meant she was going to come. 

One might ask how he was privy to such confidential material?

He'd barely escaped making fantasy into reality one night when Awesome was held-up at the hospital and his mark had passed out due to too much merlot at dinner. 

She'd been very friendly earlier that evening and he'd felt the connection as they'd done dishes together, her washing, him drying, the two of them shooting the breeze about red versus white when paired with chicken. 

His hand to God, the woman had no artifice to her and it turned him on just to hear her voice when he listened in on one of the little pep talks she would give her brother every now and then. But standing next to her and talking with her, having her undivided attention all to himself as Bartowski shuffled off to his bedroom, it changed up the dynamic considerably and he found himself letting his guard down for the first time in years.

It was like a Hollywood movie moment, when attraction wound its coils around her ribcage and she became aware of him not just as her brother's co-worker, not just as another hungry stray, but as a man. She'd been in the middle of teasing him about his massive appetite when their hands brushed up against each other as she handed him the last plate…

She tensed, her eyes went wide, her lips opened, her respiration slowed down so much that a coma victim had more lung action going on than she did.

It was the hardest thing he'd ever done not to haul her up on that little divider between her domain and the dining room and beg her not to say no, not to be ashamed or afraid, just let him peel off her jeans and her panties and make her feel toe-curling good.

Thankfully, hesitation was the Father of Salvation and the moment was gone before he could blink.

She returned her attention to retrieving glasses from the soapy water and he returned his to wiping the cutlery and neither of them said another word until the chore was complete.

Then he did his usual song-and-dance, thanking her profusely for her hospitality and her cooking as she gave him a thick slice of dessert – lemon cake with dripping with vanilla icing this time – to take home with him.

She of course, did hers as well, saying, "Any time, John," and giving him that Mother Goddess grin that made her ten times more mouthwatering than any bleached blonde bimbo who'd ever posed for Playboy.

He looked back once as he crossed the courtyard.

Big mistake.

He saw it, shining in her eyes, almost bringing him to his knees – a mixture of curiosity, yearning and the desire to comfort. He wanted her in that instant, wanted her like nothing he'd ever wanted before, wanted her and everything that she stood for – home, hearth, the Golden Retriever, the white picket fence, the 2.5 kids, the birthdays, the backyard barbecues, the baseball games.

He felt his control slip and before he could stop himself, he let her see it all: his loneliness, his hunger for her, and his utter respect for her and her prior commitments.

She breathed in sharply, knuckles blanching as she gripped the door, and he prayed that she would shut it on him. 

If she gave him an inch, or even a fraction of one, he'd be back there in a second, tossing the damn cake into the damn fountain, grabbing her in both arms and hauling her into the kitchen.

They could do it on the tiled floor – he'd gone through therapy and his knees could take it.

They could do it against the refrigerator – she was the perfect height and he really, really loved the idea of swallowing her screams while she crossed her ankles over the small of his back and worked herself on him.

Or they could head straight for the breakfast bar and he could show her a thing or thirteen about eating a woman out that her current and previous boyfriends had never even thought of.

But she was a good girl and good girls always did the right thing. 

She gave him a shy good-night smile and shut the door.

Casey's own smile was grim and tight as he let himself into his apartment and put the cake on his console. He poured himself a glass of milk, got a fork, changed into his "Dennis-the-Menace's-Dad's" pajamas, put on his headphones.

He flipped on the power, adjusted the frequency and chose the room he wanted to listen in on.

_Snoring…lots of loud, wine-soaked snoring._

_Bartowski wouldn't be flashing anytime soon, no sir._

Casey reached out, hesitating for a moment before he selected another set of bugs.

_Door closing._

_Shoes dropping._

_Clothing hitting the floor._

_Body falling onto a bed._

_Drawer opening._

_She wasn't..._

"Oooh…"

_She _was

"Mmmm…"

_Oh. _

"Ahhh!"

_My. _

"Ohhh…"

_Fucking. _

"Unh…oh! Oh-oh-oh…"

_God._

He reached out to turn off the receiver, to give her some privacy – _that was a fucking joke, Major _– _an NSA agent putting his respect for a woman above his civic duty to listen in on anything and everything that might jeopardize his nation's security?_ – but hesitated as his sensitive eardrums picked up an unexpected phoneme in her moans.

Soft as a sigh, wispy as a cirrus cloud on a clear day, high as a soprano's mid above C, but still buried deep in the recesses of her throat, it shivered all the way down his spine and seated itself in the general vicinity of his balls.

"_John…"_

Instant hard-on.

"Ohhh, _yes_!"

_Yes, in-fucking-deed…_

_Welcome, Major Casey, to the Dolby THX Surround-Sound Masturbation Experience starring Ellie Bartowski and her vibrator. _

_Hand, meet cock. _

_Now why don't we all sit back and enjoy the show…_

"Ohhh…_John_…"

_Right here, baby. _

_I'm right here. _

He almost came as she let loose with a series of high-pitched squeaks that turned into one long, low, lush moan as she also settled in for the night.

_That's it, baby. _

_No one can hear you but me. _

_Tell me all about it…_


End file.
